Cracktalia
by Satan's Sweeties
Summary: In which Scotland gets blazing drunk and molests Wales, Mexico tries to break into America's house, Rome builds a wall across Britannia, and more. Contains OCs such as Puerto Rico, Britannia, Virgin Islands, and the like.
1. Modeling Job

**Title: **Modeling Job  
><strong>Characters and Pairings: <strong>Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Hungary, Prussia, Austria, America, Puerto Rico, Virgin Islands (non-speaking cameo), Sealand (non-speaking cameo)  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Some language, perversion, cross-dressing, Prussia  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Liechtenstein and Hungary plot against an unknowing Switzerland, Prussia gets beaten with a frying pan, and Austria struggles to remain the sane one.

* * *

><p>Strolling down the hallway, Hungary stopped and opened every door in an attempt to find a certain blond, ill-tempered, gun-toting nation to ask a question of. After no less than half an hour of fruitless searching, she eventually found him hoarding chocolate into his bag in the lobby area of the meeting building. "Hey, Switzerland!" she called, striding over to him. "Can I ask a favor of you?"<p>

"Depends on what it is," he replied, putting the safety on his handgun and tucking it into the back of his pants.

Subduing a maniacal smirk, Hungary said, "I have a crapton of ideas for outfits, but I can't work with them if I have no one to model them for me. Could you be my mannequin?"

He raised an eyebrow. "No chance in hell," he deadpanned, slinging his bag over his shoulder and walking out the door, leaving Hungary behind and planning a way to make him say yes.

. . .

One of the benefits of being a nation was having superior "child care," which even the meeting building had for the micronations and sovereign states to spend time in if they so chose; every once in a while, Italy, Spain, or America would pop in and mess around with the smaller countries, too.

When Hungary walked in, she found America, puppy-dog eyes in full cute mode and pouting at Puerto Rico. "Are you _sure _you don't wanna become a state?" he whined, widening his eyes and jutting his bottom lip out further.

Puerto Rico sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and glancing over at Virgin Islands as if asking for help. "_Sí_, I do not want to become a state. Now _por favor_, leave me alone."

Hungary giggled, bypassing the still-pleading blond nation and practically skipping over to where Liechtenstein and Sealand were playing Mario Kart. She stood behind the two of them and watched as Liechtenstein jumped out in front and proceeded to kick Sealand's non-nation ass into oblivion. "Nice job!" she said when they were finished, ruffling the little girl's hair.

Turning her head, Liechtenstein smiled before standing up and giving a little curtsey. "Hello, Miss Hungary," she said, smiling sweetly. "What can I help you with?"

"I need your help with something that involves your brother…"

. . .

"Big brother!" Liechtenstein called out, running to capture Switzerland in a hug and holding around his waist tightly. "I missed you so much! How was your meeting?"

Switzerland gave a small smile and hugged her back, saying, "Unproductive as usual. How was your day?"

"It was fine, but I wanted to ask you something."

He shrugged, letting go of his little sister and allowing her to step back a smidge. "Go ahead."

"Miss Hungary has a lot of really cute ideas for dresses and I wanted to help her, but I'm too small to be a model for her. Could you be the model instead?"

. . .

Since Prussia's awesome, he deserves at least a small part in this story; that, and he threatened the author with certain death and destruction if he didn't get as little as a cameo with a speaking part. So, she's decided to put him in right here, just for the shits and giggles.

Swaggering awesomely down the hallway, Prussia spotted a pretty little maiden with mousy brown hair and, after quickly fixing his hair to look even sexier than usual, sauntered over to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Hey, babe," he purred, pulling Hungary closer to him. "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

Facial expression dead set at neutral, Hungary shrugged off the offending arm, reached into hammerspace to pull out her frying pan, and beat Prussia over the head with it. "Haven't I hit you with something before because you used crappy pickup lines?"

. . .

Austria had lived with Hungary long enough to know that there were some things she did that should never be questioned, but that didn't stop him from thinking 'what the fuck' when things out of the ordinary made their way into his imagined sanctuary of quiet and sanity.

Which is precisely why walking in the door and finding Switzerland in a rather revealing dress didn't shock, abhor, or perturb him in any way; he was, however, mentally scarred.

"I'm home," he announced, tossing his coat onto the couch.

Hungary popped out from behind the embarrassed-looking blond in a dress, pins held between her lips as she sewed the dress to make it a better fit, and said, "Wewcome home, Austwia. I'm jus' fixin' the dwess so it fits bettew. Don't mind me."

"Trust me," Austria replied, loosening his tie, "I won't."

"Miss Hungary! Is this the right color ribbon? I think it would look pretty!"


	2. Custody Agreement

**Title: **Custody Agreement  
><strong>Characters and Pairings: <strong>America/England, Virgin Islands, Canada, Russia, Belarus, France, Italy, Prussia  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Language, references to sex, deadpan snarking, France, boys kissing, perversion  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Virgin Islands and her living arrangements are argued over, America and England need to get laid, and Canada is more or less forgotten.

* * *

><p>"What the hell, England? This is <em>my <em>week!"

"Bollocks! You had her last week while I was on holiday! By my calculations, you have to give up one of your weeks to even out the number!"

Every time.

Every goddamn time America and England got together to discuss Virgin Islands' living arrangements, they couldn't do so without fighting like a couple of bitches over the last pair of Jimmy Choo designer flip-flops.

Every. Fucking. Time.

"Somebody, anybody, just kill me," she moaned, dropping her head onto the table she was sitting at and practically weeping out of desperation. Behind her, Canada walked up and patted her on the back caringly, telling her to just let it all out, it'll be okay. Lifting her head and turning slightly to face him, she said, "Who are you?"

A little part of him died. "I'm Canada," he muttered, pouting. "I know what you're going through, too; back in the day, England and France would fight over me and who I belonged to. Compared to those two, America and England fighting is nothing."

Virgin Islands sighed, running a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair before pushing her chair back and standing up. "I need an aspirin. Text me when they've resolved the UST."

. . .

Prussia watched with mild interest as Virgin Islands slumped into the room and collapsed on the couch, looking rather deflated and hopeless. "Beer?" he offered, holding out a bottle of the stuff invitingly. Taking one look at the bottle, Virgin Islands grimaced and shook her head. "Why?"

"I'm only sixteen," she answered, "and we're in America right now."

"Oh." A moment's pause, then, "So, beer?"

. . .

_"Yes, because you're obviously the better parent, you should have more privileges and see her more often, correct?"_

_"Damn right, limey! If you haven't noticed, she likes to have fun, which you have a habit of killing!"_

_"Why, you little…!"_

France sauntered up behind her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders that she chose to ignore in hopes of avoiding lashing out at him again. "Zey are still at it, aren't zey?" he asked, obviously stating the obviously obvious fact that yes, they obviously are still fighting, if it wasn't obvious enough.

"Yeah. It's starting to get rather boring."

The smile that crept across France's lips left Virgin Islands feeling a little disturbed. "If you are bored, per'aps I could show you a good time, _oui_?"

She huffed, grabbing the hand attached to the arm draped over her shoulder and putting it into a thumb lock until France let go. "France, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm the 'Virgin' Islands. Not the 'Oh Shit, I Just Had Sex for the First Time and My Partner Didn't Wear a Condom So Now I'm All Knocked Up, Oopsie' Islands. Chastity is necessary. Now fuck off, Frenchie."

. . .

"How do I fix this mess?"

"You could become one with Russia, da?"

"Now that you mention it, that doesn't seem like such a bad idea—"

"_NOBODY BECOMES ONE WITH BROTHER BUT ME. HE WILL MARRY ME MARRY ME MARRY ME MARRY ME_…"

"…I'll, uh, just be going, then…"

. . .

Listening to Italy talk about food wasn't necessarily the most fun thing to do, but it sure beat watching America and England at each other's throats. They were always so damn loud when they fought; it was as if they were incapable of being quiet. God, even then she could hear the—

Wait.

Rewind.

"Italy, do you hear that?" she asked, looking up from her cell phone.

He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side. "Ve, what am I supposed to be hearing? There isn't anything!"

She nodded. "That would be the problem. C'mon, I've gotta make sure they haven't killed each other yet."

When she finally made it back to the conference room the two were arguing in and opened the door, the sight that beheld her was definitely not the one she'd expected, let alone anything she'd even been hoping to expect.

America had England pressed flush against the wall, using one hand to hold both of the Brit's above his head and using the other to unbutton his shirt, both of them having already shed their jackets. But what took the cake was the fact that they both looked like they wanted it, and Virgin Islands couldn't decide whether or not this was worse than them screaming obscenities at each other.

"Wow! I didn't know England was that flexible!" Italy said cheerily, grinning widely as Virgin Islands slowly closed the door and turned, all too eager to get the hell out of Dodge and get some psychiatric help.

That eye twitch never really did go away.


	3. Back to School

**Title: **Back to School  
><strong>Characters and Pairings: <strong>Sealand, Liechtenstein, England, Switzerland, Romano, Puerto Rico, America, various other non-nation OCs  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Middle school, language, micronation cuteness, Romano's mouth, jackass students  
><strong>Summary: <strong>England's a jerk, Switzerland just wants the best for his little sister, Sealand and Liechtenstein are enrolled in an American school, and Romano's teaching Spanish class.

* * *

><p>Crossing his little arms over his chest, Sealand pouted and glared at the back of England's seat from where he was situated in the back seat of his jerk brother's car. "I hate you so much, jerk England! This is not fair at all! Why do I have to go to school when America never had to?"<p>

"Because," England replied, closing his eyes momentarily and willing away the impending headache, "I'm busier now than I was when America was your age, and I don't have time to teach you myself. Since you're not a country, there's no need for you _not_ to go to school."

Sealand buried himself deeper into his seat. "I don't wanna go to school!"

. . .

"I can't wait to go to school, big brother!" Liechtenstein said happily, folding her hands in her lap and looking out the window at her new school. In the driver's seat, Switzerland suppressed a smile and pulled into a parking space not too far from the front doors of the school.

The entire time he was signing her in, Switzerland couldn't help but look and feel nervous; after all, he was entrusting the care and well-being of his precious little sister to people he'd never met before. It hurt to just leave here there, but he knew he couldn't just follow her around all day, so he hugged her, said, "Goodbye," and left.

Once her big brother left, Liechtenstein turned around and smiled, holding her backpack to her chest and heading toward the locker with the number the front office gave her on it. School was going to be so much fun!

. . .

"I don't wanna go! I don't, I don't, I don't!"

Sighing, England dragged Sealand to the front desk by his shirt collar, smiling sweetly at the secretary there. "Hello, madam. I'm here to check my brother in for his first day of school. Dreadfully sorry that we're late; you know how those pre-teenagers like to sleep in."

_That accent… ooh~! _"It's fine. Can I get a name?"

"Peter Kirkland."

She nodded. "He's signed in. Have a nice day."

. . .

An angry Puerto Rican girl slammed the door to a red pickup truck and stormed off, followed swiftly by a blond man with glasses and a bomber jacket. "_Que he ido a la escuela durante dos años ya_! _No necesito tu ayuda con cualquier cosa_! _Sólo tienes que ir a casa y hacer tu trabajo, tu perezoso americano_!" she yelled over her shoulder, practically kicking open the door to the school.

America frowned, tailing her through the double doors at the front of the building. "Don't be like that, Puerto Rico! I'm the one who's supposed to be responsible for you, so can you really blame me for wanting to make sure you're ready?" he whined, reaching forward to put a hand on her shoulder only to have it shrugged off.

"_Maldita sea, América_," Puerto Rico whisper-yelled, trying not to make too much of a scene, "_no soy una niña_! _Puedo cuidar de mí mismo_! _Sólo tienes que ir a casa_!" Leaving America in the dust, she stomped down the hallway, dropped her backpack on the floor, and tore her locker open.

. . .

When the Spanish III students walked into the classroom and saw the name 'Mr. Vargas' written on the board, they'd expected a nice, quiet Spanish guy to come in, set an apple on his desk for later, and proceed cheerily with the introductions.

What they got was a pissy Italian that came in, practically slammed a tomato down on his desk, and scowled at the class.

One of the kids turned to his friend and whispered, "Dude, why the hell do we have an _Italian _teaching _Spanish _class?"

Before his friend could respond, Romano strode over to him, leaned down, and slapped his palms flat on the student's desk. "_Sé más español de tu que nunca puede aspirar a aprender, así que cierra tu estupido boca de mierda, gilipollas_!" he snarled, narrowing his eyes at the now-fearful student. Standing back up and straightening himself out, he addressed the rest of the class with, "_Cualquier otros listillo comentarios, o _¿_podemos finalmente empezar_?"

There was a moment of silence before the class muttered, "_Tenemos no más preguntas, Señor Vargas_."

By then, Romano had headed back to his desk and snatched the tomato off of it; taking a bite, he said, "_Fantástico. Quiero ustedes escribir un ensayo, en español, describiendo lo que hiciste durante la vacacion de verano. Tienes quince minutos._"

. . .

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. Liechtenstein made a ton of new friends, Sealand's British accent was a total chick magnet, Puerto Rico took a rash of shit from her friends about her overprotective big brother before continuing on with her day as usual, and Romano received the same 'holy shit, there's an Italian teaching Spanish class' every fucking period.

At the end of the day, when they'd all headed back to the hotel/meeting building/hang out, the rest of the countries were waiting to ask them how their day was.

"I have had better," said Puerto Rico, dumping her bag on the floor and crashing on the couch.

"The girls wouldn't leave me alone, but I don't know why," replied Sealand, sitting next to Puerto Rico.

"Fucking smartasses gave me shit about being Italian. Unappreciative fucks…" Romano grumbled, rubbing his temples.

"I had fun!" Liechtenstein chirped, tilting her head to the side and smiling. "I want to go back tomorrow!"

* * *

><p>Translations (please note that I did not use a translator for this; I did all the translations based on what little Spanish I actually know, so if something isn't right, just let me know):<p>

_Que he ido a la escuela durante dos años ya_! _No necesito tu ayuda con cualquier cosa_! _Sólo tienes que ir a casa y hacer tu trabajo, tu perezoso americano_!—I've gone to school for two years already! I don't need your help with anything! Just go home and do your job, you lazy American!

_Maldita sea, América, no soy una niña_! _Puedo cuidar de mí mismo_! _Sólo tienes que ir a casa_!—Damn it, America, I'm not a little girl! I can take care of myself! Just go home!

_Sé más español de tu que nunca puede aspirar a aprender, así que cierra tu estupido boca de mierda, gilipollas_!—I know more Spanish than you can ever hope to learn, so shut your stupid fucking mouth, asshole!

_Cualquier otros listillo comentarios, o_ ¿_podemos finalmente empezar_?—Any other smartass comments, or can we finally get started?

_Tenemos no más preguntas, Señor Vargas_.—We have no more questions, Mr. Vargas.

_Fantástico. Quiero ustedes escribir un ensayo, en español, describiendo lo que hiciste durante la vacacion de verano. Tienes quince minutos._—Fantastic. I want you to write an essay, in Spanish, describing what you did during summer vacation. You have fifteen minutes.


	4. Excuses

**Title: **Excuses  
><strong>Characters and Pairings: <strong>England, France, America (non-speaking cameo), Japan (non-speaking cameo), Mexico (non-speaking cameo), a couple non-nation OCs  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Language (a given), mentioned/implied groping, the legal system  
><strong>Summary: <strong>In which France skirts being charged for something and England asks how he does it. Of course, when England's in the same situation…

* * *

><p>"<em>Angleterre<em>, I 'ave a favor to ask of you," France called out, hurrying over to where England was sitting and enjoying his morning; well, before France came along, of course.

He sighed. "What is it, frog?"

France pointed to his necktie. "Is my tie straight? I cannot go into court looking like some uncultured buffoon off ze streets. Zat would simply be unbecoming of a passionate man like myself; you, on ze ozer 'and…" He smirked at the flush that spread across his colleague's face, enjoying the fact that he could always get a rise out of the ill-tempered Brit.

"Are you being charged with being an imbecille?" England retorted, resisting the urge to strangle the Frenchman with his tie.

"_Non_. Sexual 'arassment. But it's no problem; I will 'ave no trouble talking my way out of it, because I 'ave a secret weapon zat zey cannot win against."

England rolled his eyes. "Oh? And what would that be?"

A laugh. "Ze truz, _mon ami_. I just tell it like it is. 'Mr. Bonnefoy, can you explain your reasoning for inappropriately touching Mr. Brown?' 'Oh, why yes, _monsieur_. You see, _je suis français. C'est ce que nous faisons_.' It works every time, wizout fail."

"I highly doubt that really works. Don't call me to bail you out."

. . .

France was back after a few hours, shedding his suit jacket and tie as he walked through the door to the meeting building. "I 'ave returned, _mon cher Angleterre._"

"So, do you have to pay a fine? Serve time? Anything?"

"_Non_. I told you it really works. It's not my fault you didn't believe me."

The Brit's mouth gaped, rendering him useless past blinking for a moment. "Nothing? You got off completely scot-free?"

He smiled. "_Oui_."

. . .

A mild ARTHUR appears!

ARTHUR goes to the supermarket to buy groceries!

Focused elsewhere, ARTHUR slips in a puddle of water!

To avoid serious injury, ARTHUR puts his hands out to cushion his fall!

In the midst of the action, ARTHUR mistakenly gropes BOOBS!

BOOBS unleashes Purse Attack Tampon Storm!

ARTHUR fails to block and takes the blow!

Unable to fight any longer, ARTHUR is completely pwned by BOOBS!

For his troubles, ARTHUR receives a SEXUAL HARASSMENT CHARGE and a complimentary COURT SUMMONS!

ARTHUR grudgingly accepts and admits defeat!

. . .

"Mr. Kirkland…"

_Kill me._

"…you've been summoned here…"

_Please kill me._

"…on the charge of…"

_Please, please kill me._

"…sexual harassment toward Miss Davis. Miss Davis claims that you inappropriately touched her without her consent or prior knowledge. Is this correct?"

Fighting unmanly tears, he replied, "Yes, Your Honor."

"And you understand that the implications of your actions may result in a heavy fine?"

_Why me? _"Yes, Your Honor."

The judge nodded, resting her elbows on her "desk" and resting her chin in her hands. "I will give you the chance to explain yourself, Mr. Kirkland, and I would like a thorough and complete explanation as to why you sexually harassed Miss Davis. You may begin."

England had three options:

1. Tell the truth and hope the judge believed him.  
>2. Lie and say that he thought she was someone else, or something along those lines.<br>3. The unmentionable thing that, when mentioned, made shivers go down his spine because unmentionable things should stay unmentioned for the sake of being labeled unmentionable.

Standing up slowly, he adjusted his suit and cleared his throat, subtly taking longer than necessary before opening his mouth and saying, "_J-Je suis français. C'est ce que nous f-faisons_…?"

. . .

When he came storming back to the UN, England did not look the least bit happy about his predicament. With America annoyingly explaining something to Japan and Mexico in the background, France asked, "'ow did it go? Did you use what I told you to?"

"Yes, I did, and do you know what I received for it?"

France pursed his lips, cocking his head to the side. "_Quoi_?"

"A fine, you arsehole!" he yelled, grabbing onto the front of France's shirt and shaking him back and forth. "Almost eleven thousands pounds worth of a fine! This is the last time, _the _last time, I _ever_ take advice from you, you egotistical, no-good, snail-slurping son of a bitch!"

As he stomped off, the rest of the nations in the general vicinity went silent for a moment before France waved it off dismissively and said, "'e will be back. Zey always come back."

* * *

><p>Translations (used the pathetic amount of French I actually know, so correct me if I'm wrong):<p>

_Je suis français. C'est ce que nous faisons_.—I'm French. That's what we do.

_Quoi_?—What?

You should be able to figure out the rest.


End file.
